From that moment, Draco Malfoy ceased to exist for Harry Potter.
He lived, prospered and even thrived academically—indeed, Draco went about blankly doing all exact the things he'd done before, excepting the one, in no way hampered by the fact that he'd just permanently destroyed, once and for all, the life of the Wizarding world's Saviour. Ron Weasley did not murder him; Hermione Granger did not slap him and not a peep was heard regarding detentions or suspensions or an outright expulsion from the likes of Madame Pomfrey, the Headmistress or Professor Slughorn, Head of Slytherin House.
But he didn't exist.
Or rather, he existed in a void, of his own making and of Potter's, and there was no way clear to fix it.
It bit deep, the irony. Oh, he'd succeeded; all well and good. Potter was with his child. But he'd buggered up his last mad plan of revenge on Harry Potter something fierce, Draco had, and he was well aware of it every moment, waking or sleeping.
It ate at him—ate, ate, ate.
Harry, in the meantime, returned to classes but not to the reconstruction effort. His other friends took up his slack, and Draco as well, without complaint. Though he, it seemed, was never assigned a partner outside of his own House or Hufflepuff. And Potter was no longer paired automatically with Draco in Potions, nor DADA, nor any other class, though that had been the norm for some months. He did not glance over at the Slytherin table during mealtimes, ever. He appeared just the same as usual to the eyes that watched him furtively. Perhaps a smidgeon paler, and maybe less frenetically energetic or perhaps a dram more apathetic, but he still laughed stupidly at Weasley's feeble jokes and ate up his meals—mostly.
It was infuriating.
"Fuck you," Draco muttered, fairly often and out of the blue, now and again startling some poor Slytherin Firstie. Or Prickwell, the arse.
"Fuck you, Potter. We'll just see about that."
Harry's tower hideaway was locked, warded and as unapproachable as the Room of Requirement had been. Wishing would not open it, nor any spell Draco could hurl. He tried even to remove the hinges by using a Muggle screwdriver one night and was unsuccessful. There was no way in, and not a sound emanated through the thick door, though Draco could swear Harry retreated there still.
He'd slump before it nightly and hope the violently Victorian violet sofa still existed. He'd fond memories of that hideous thing.
As for what he did with all his free time, now that he wasn't meeting up with Potter, Draco spent it in the Restricted Section, researching the ramifications of what he'd done, and how to mitigate it.
It was blindingly obvious, the immediate result of impregnating a Wizard.
There'd be pain—male Wizards were not hardwired for carrying a child, nor birthing one—and there'd be a drain to Potter's Magical self for the entire term of the pregnancy. He'd need all those supplementary Potions Madame referenced, and no undue strain placed upon him, and a Healer knowledgeable in the field.
He'd need. Potter would need.
Pain, Draco thought, and couldn't get 'round that one word. Pain.
It filled the sheltering void, shattered the deep freeze his chest cavity had become and left him flinching.
Harry, in pain.
Harry and pain.
The Restricted Section was perfectly acceptable for an academic setting, but Draco required more. He Apparated home from Hogsmeade three weeks after he'd been shunned, and holed himself up in the Manor's library all weekend.
His Mum had something to say about that. Of course.